Come What May
by Cloudsinmycoffee9
Summary: An idea of what could possibly happen to Cora and Robert in the coming years.


She was still surprised she'd managed it, but she'd kept him away from this one. There had been a series of lies, of half-truths . . . she felt terrible, of course. Hadn't they promised to always tell each other the truth? But for some reason, after this last series of tests, she had felt the need to come to this alone. To hear the news alone, and to decide what to do with it. She would protect him at all costs, shoulder the burden at all costs, to save any hurt from him. And hopefully, and she held on to this dearly, hopefully there would only be good news. Hopefully she could return home with nothing but a smile and a lightness in her heart she hadn't felt in nearly a year and perhaps a new hat she would pick up from the village to serve as an excuse for the few hours she'd spent away from the estate.

Yes. A new hat. His favorite chocolates. She'd be back in time for tea.

She nodded to the receptionist and waited for just a few moments, not quite long enough to decide if she'd made the right decision or not, just enough to feel the shadow of doubt begin to creep upon her. Just long enough to wish she had a hand to hold on to besides her own nervous ones. Mary, Edith, Isobel even could have waited in the room for her. Oh, why had she come alone?

But it was too late. She was led through the door and it shut firmly behind her. It was time to face the news. She steeled herself for it.

"Good morning, Lady Grantham."

She managed a clipped nod, glancing around the room, eyes skittering across the books that they'd hoped held some sort of answer. "Well?" she asked, settling into the chair and not bothering with pleasantries. This was the fifth appointment in a month's time. Dr. Clarkson, specialists, observations, interviews. There was no more time for small talk, for dancing around the topic politely as the British were sometimes wont to do. This was the rest of her life, of his life, of their lives that they had built together. If there were answers, she wanted them now.

"As you know, Lady Grantham, we've ordered any number of tests and observations, and all doctors involved have consulted the most recent and most accurate research, at your behest and the request of your husband. Unfortunately - "

"Dr. Clarkson - you've delivered all four of my children, laid two of them to rest, given me a grandchild, and been a witness to any number of scandalous dinners and events in the family history. We can be and in this moment I insist we are on familiar terms. Please, I beg you, don't hide any information, and do not delay if you have any concrete news. Just tell me - "

"That's just it, I'm afraid. The research is all so very new. Well, the diagnosis itself has been around for a few years, but we still know very little. But I think that what Lord Grantham may have is something called Alzheimer's disease."

And there it was - a name, a thing they could call what had begun to change her husband. A diagnosis. A noun. A decision. There was a brief sense of relief in the knowing, but as she snapped back into reality and forced herself to listen as the doctor continued, the moment of relief turned to a numbing cold at his words as she tried to latch onto anything that might give reason to hope.

". . . Its causes are unknown, although they are associated with aging, stress, depression, hypertension. Its patients can experience hallucinations, memory loss, mood swings, disorientation . . . and a few other things which align with what both you and Lord Grantham have described."

She sat, back straight as always, perched on the edge of the seat, her gloved hands crossed politely in her lap. But unlike most calls and errands that this posture required, this time she was focused less on maintaining polite conversation, and mostly on trying to convince herself to breathe evenly. To breathe at all.

"I see," she repeated, nodding before forcing herself to make eye contact with the kindly doctor. "And when you say 'disease,' Dr. Clarkson, is there some method of treatment? A hospital we can attend that will house a cure for this disease? Perhaps a few weeks by the sea?"

The doctor shifted in his seat for a long moment, shuffling papers, and Cora braced herself for the worst. "Dr. Clarkson?" she prodded against his hesitation.

"Lady Grantham, I'm afraid that there is no treatment available. I'm afraid we know too little to prescribe anything at this time beyond the option of a nurse at the Abbey or . . . or when it becomes too much . . . an . . . well, a place might be found suitable for - "

"No." She stopped him quietly. "No," she whispered again, a gloved hand swiping at her cheeks where disobedient tears had gathered to fall. "My husband will not leave Downton. My husband will not be institutionalized and left for, for, whatever passes for care in such places! Absolutely not. Over my dead body will you-"

"Lady Grantham! There's no need to - Please, I beg you!" Dr. Clarkson half-stood, a hand raised to stop her, and she realized that she was now on her feet, looking down at him as she delivered ultimatums based on a sentence not yet finished.

"I apologize," she murmured, seating herself once again. "I don't know what -" she stopped, feeling the prickling of tears coming. She swallowed hard against them. "Please, continue."

Dr. Clarkson sighed sympathetically. "Lady Grantham, I can't tell you how much it pains me to deliver such vague news to you. I hope it comes as some sort of relief to have what we think is a definitive diagnosis, and yet, as there is no known cure, simply preventative measures one might take - "

"Tell me all of them," she interrupted.

"I beg your pardon?"

"The preventative measures. What they are, what they might mean, what kind of time it might buy us. I don't care how ridiculous they sound. Tell me everything you know." She reached into her handbag and pulled out a notebook and sharpened pencil she had taken to keeping with her at all times to document the increasingly strange behavior Robert had begun to exhibit. She opened to a fresh page, laying the book across her lap. She scratched the pencil across the top, labeling it "Possible Treatments," and then leaned forward in her chair.

"I'm ready, Doctor. Please."


End file.
